Life
by JamesLuver
Summary: Anna tells John that she's pregnant while he's in jail. Prompted by anon on Tumblr.
1. I

**A/N:** Prompted by anon.

I chose to call this one _Life_ because Anna and John have created life and he's in prison for life. Well, _I_ thought it was clever. For me, anyway.

This first chapter is short because it was intended to be just a short drabble for the promptathon. And then some evil person -coughHFTBcough- insisted on prompting me for another part. That one is longer, and will be appearing in a few days.

**Disclaimer:** Prison would never have happened if I owned _Downton Abbey_. Just saying.

* * *

_Life_

I.

She sits across from him in the filthy visiting room, wringing her hands together beneath the table. Across from her, John sits eyeing her worriedly. She has never seen him looking more unkempt and defeated and, not for the first time, she wonders if she's doing the right thing by telling him.

But of course she is. He will find out sooner or later anyway. He needs to hear it from her today.

"Anna, is there something wrong?" John asks her at last, and she glances back up at him, biting her lip. Now that he has breached the subject, she knows that she has to tell him.

"There is something," she says, looking torn between agony and joy. John frowns, disconcerted by the expression.

Of course, none of this is ideal. What will people say? _Child of a murderer. Such evil offspring should be drowned at birth_. John himself will torture and blame himself for this, for surrounding her with such uncertainty on what should be a happy occasion. And yet, deep down, she knows that it will be one of the best things to happen to her life. Perhaps she is being selfish, thinking in such terms, but she knows that carrying her husband's child within her over the coming weeks and months will give her the strength she needs to carry on and face the world.

He needs to know the truth.

Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to look up into his world-weary face, plastering as happy a smile as she can across her lips.

"I found out a couple of days ago," she starts lowly, glancing around to make sure that no one is listening in to their conversation. "I'm pregnant, John."

She watches the colour drain from his face – what little there is, anyway. She watches his eyes flicker with utter anguish at her statement. And she sees the smile he returns to her, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes in the slightest.

"That's wonderful," he tells her, but there is no sincerity in his voice.

The smile fades from her face immediately. She drops her gaze. She can't bear it.

"Time!" bellows the guard.

She gets up to leave, making an attempt to say something. No words will come. He tries to smile, but all he can manage is a grimace.

* * *

That night, alone in their own personal hells, they cry together.


	2. II

**A/N:** This continuation was prompted by handy-for-the-bus on Tumblr.

I really do hope that this isn't too OOC. For me, personally, I can see John being completely unhappy about the news, just because I don't think he'd ever _ever _want to leave Anna in such an uncertain position. Also, Anna cries a lot, but I don't think she can be blamed.

* * *

II.

She doesn't want to visit him when that time of the week comes around again. All she has done for those long hours between is torture herself over and over with the memory of his face when she had told him the news, his absolute horror at hearing her words haunting her dreams when she _does_ escape reality.

More than that, she fears that if she was to visit, she'll spend her time sitting across from an empty chair, waiting while the guards found out what the problem is. She fears being told that he won't come and see her, that he doesn't want to see her again, that her final piece of faith will be severed beyond repair.

The day arrives. She goes anyway. As if she even has a choice in it all. She spends the entire bus journey twisting her trembling hands together in her lap and fighting the urge to be sick – more to do with her anxiety than morning sickness. When she arrives in York, she moves into the visiting area with her heart in her mouth, already resigned to acting out her nightmares.

But, miraculously, he is there.

Slowly, she makes her way over to him. He doesn't look as if he's slept in a week. His eyes are shadowy and lack that twinkle of life that she had fallen in love with all those years ago. His face is gaunt and pale. The stubble is thick on his chin. His hair is filthy. She sinks into the seat in front of him. He lowers his eyes to the table. She feels her heart beginning to break. For several long minutes, there is silence. She cannot find any words. Whenever she opens her mouth, they die on her lips. Her hands quake harder than ever. She can't do this, she can't. Why is God punishing her? Why, why, _why_ –

Her frantic thoughts are interrupted then by her husband shifting in his seat. She locks eyes with him. He looks so lost and uncomfortable, but he swallows hard.

"How are you?" he asks her quietly, and she sees his eyes flicker downwards, to where the table hides her stomach.

She inhales shakily, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. "I'm fine."

He nods, but she knows that he doesn't believe her. She doesn't blame him. She abhors lying, but she knows in this instant that it _is_ better to lie, better to let him think that she is coping when she is doing anything but. He tortures himself enough as it is. There is no need to add to his burden by telling him that she can't eat and she can't sleep. She knows that they need to talk, but she doesn't know quite how to broach the subject of the baby – _their_ baby.

She doesn't have to wonder for long, because John is the one to break the silence.

"Have you told anyone else yet?" he asks softly.

"No," she says. "Not yet."

"You should. People need to be made aware of the situation. You need to take care of yourself now."

How can she, when all she can think about is him, his life in prison, his reaction to the news, the possibility of death hanging over his head like some kind of demon from hell?

"I'll write to his lordship, of course," he says morosely. "I need to know that he'll make sure that you're well taken care of. I hate to have to ask him such a thing, but I can't bear the thought of you worrying about what you'll do. Perhaps he can give you a cottage. You can start renting out my mother's house, so at least you'll have a little bit of income every week. And…"

She listens as he goes on in that monotone, and she feels herself feeling sicker by the second. He is talking as though she is going to be raising their child alone…as if he won't even be there to witness anything. She can't bear it. Tears fill her eyes, and she chokes on a sniffle. John breaks off at once, watching her cautiously, and she begins to sob in earnest.

"Anna…" he says softly, glancing round. They are garnering lots of attention. He hates that. "Anna, don't."

She only sobs harder.

The other prisoners will be talking, John thinks dimly. They'll be wondering why the pretty young thing is crying. Is he breaking off their marriage? Is she overcome with guilt about an entanglement while he is rotting away in here, all alone with no comfort?

Without thinking, he reaches his hands across the table, covering hers gently. He winces at the sight of them – dirty nails, caked with grime – and expects her to recoil. But she doesn't, turning her hand so that she can entwine their fingers. For one brief moment, the world realigns.

And then he is being pulled roughly away by the back of his filthy prison jacket.

"No touching," snarls the guard. "Do it again, and I'll beat you."

Anna stifles a cry, and shivers at the blank look in her husband's eyes…as if he _knows_ what it's like to be on the receiving end of such a thing. She brings her hands beneath the line of the table, to stop herself from reaching out to him.

"Are you all right?" he asks her awkwardly.

She's moving her head, and she isn't sure if she's nodding or not. "I just – I need –"

"What do you need, Anna?" he inquires quietly.

"I need you to be pleased," she blurts out at last, eyes wild. "I need that reassurance."

The silence that lingers on and on is excruciating. John's expression is agonised. He thinks about lying to her, telling that of _course_ he's pleased, but he knows that she had read it in his face last week, that she's seen it in him all through this visit, and that she'll see right through him now. He can't lie. Not to her. Not anymore, no matter how painful.

"I can't bring myself to be pleased," he tells her softly, as if that will cushion the blow. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to burden you with something like this. _Either _of you. The child doesn't deserve to grow up without a father…and it certainly won't deserve to be saddled with someone like me."

"But you'll be found innocent," she tells him fiercely, and the tears are back, scalding her face. "You _will_, because you're innocent and then you'll come home and we'll raise the baby together –"

"And it might not happen like that," he tells her softly. "Believe me, I want it to. You have no idea how much I want it to. But if it doesn't…I can't bear the thought of doing this to you, of getting you pregnant and leaving you to cope with everything alone. All I ever do is make life worse for you."

"Don't say that," she chokes. "I love you. And I'll love our baby. And…and I _need_ this baby, somehow. I can't explain it –" _Oh, you liar, Anna Bates,_ "– but I _need_ it."

Before she even realises it, she's crying in earnest once more, hot tears rolling down her face. And she hates it. She hates being so weak in front of him, when she'd vowed to herself that she would only ever let him see her strong and fighting, that he'd never see her wallowing in self-pity because he doesn't need to see that. But somehow a barrier has been broken within her, and she can't stop it.

For John, her actions bring a moment of clarity, and he feels sick at the thought of his own selfishness. In that instant, his mind is made up. Standing abruptly, he hobbles around the table and seizes her, pulling her into his arms. She folds at once, sobbing into his neck, choking on the filthy smell of days' old sweat and hard work and cold. John notices the guard from earlier moving forward to force them apart, but he fixes him with such a loathing stare that he hesitates. John glares coldly for a moment longer, just daring him. The guard doesn't move. He knows that he will pay for his behaviour later – with kicks and blows and bludgeoning batons, until he is black and blue and bleeding, unable to even remember his own name – but for the moment, it doesn't matter. There is only one thing that matters. He turns his attention back to Anna. Anna, who is carrying their child, who has to cope alone in a world of uncertainty. In that moment, he realises the true extent of the strain that she must be feeling. He feels tears of his own threatening, then blinks them away defiantly, pressing his chin fiercely against the crown of her hair. Now, more than ever, she needs him. His own feelings have to be put to one side. They're inconsequential. How can he be so selfish and self-pitying? What has he done? How could he have said such heartless words to her, when she'd said that she needed him to be pleased? How can he begrudge her this, this comfort on long nights, this hope to cling on to…and perhaps even the only reminder that she'll have left of him in the end. How could he have been so careless?

_Anna needs you_.

He swears to himself then that he'll do whatever it takes to make amends.

"We'll work something out," he whispers into her hair. "I'll be here for you, I promise, no matter what."

Still, it's hollow reassurance in a world that's been against them from the start.

* * *

**A/N:** And that's that. Yay for angst.


End file.
